


Seep

by jawsandbones



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Body Horror, Hurt/Comfort, I promise the body horror is fairly tame, M/M, Post-Trespasser, The consequences of the Well and the Anchor after Trespasser, and will end soft and warm, just some ideas bopping around
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27624563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jawsandbones/pseuds/jawsandbones
Summary: The anchor, and his arm, are gone, but its mark remains. Post-Trespasser.---“Dorian?” An echoing whisper, the walls murmuring to one another as he passes. He holds himself close, his arm tight against his chest and fist bundled. Loose strands of hair wisp around his face, his neck. He ignores the pinpricking pain in his feet. “Dorian?” That warbling echo again, his voice cast out only to return to him sounding less uncertain, more impatient. He listens for something deeper. The snow continues to fall, creates a blanket of nothingness. It amplifies the friction of his thoughts, a grain so loud it threatens to drown out the silence.
Relationships: Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Lavellan/Dorian Pavus, Male Inquisitor/Dorian Pavus, Male Lavellan/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	1. I

The fingertip touches against the first knuckle of his spine, presses the cold into his bones. An endless embrace, his breath fogging over the pillow as he shivers awake. Mahanon reaches for the blankets he does not find. A hand over, meaning to find another, but instead that space is cold as well. Dorian’s side of the bed is long empty. The windows are crystallized by frost, covered in snow. The fireplace holds but ash, and he struggles for the shape of anything in the heavy darkness. Bare feet against wood floors, and Mahanon quickly pads to the door and throws it open. The rest of the estate holds no more warmth than their room.

“Dorian?” An echoing whisper, the walls murmuring to one another as he passes. He holds himself close, his arm tight against his chest and fist bundled. Loose strands of hair wisp around his face, his neck. He ignores the pinpricking pain in his feet. “Dorian?” That warbling echo again, his voice cast out only to return to him sounding less uncertain, more impatient. He listens for something deeper. The snow continues to fall, creates a blanket of nothingness. It amplifies the friction of his thoughts, a grain so loud it threatens to drown out the silence.

“Nan?” A whisper at his back in Dorian’s voice, and so he turns. The bedroom door is still cracked open from when he left, now standing at the end of the corridor. He cocks his head. Strange, that a light should be there now.

“Dorian?” His steps are small, his teeth chattering. Needles into his soles, leaving ghostly footprints. The closer he gets, the farther the door is. Mahanon reaches out, hand around the railing, meaning to pull himself forward. Again, yet – his hand doesn’t come free of the banister. Frost laces its fingers with his. Mahanon winces as he tries gently to pull his palm free. His skin continues to be greedily devoured by wrought iron.

“Nan!” Different from the last, with panic in his voice. Shadows move in the strange light. “I need you here now, please!”

“I’m coming!” Nan shouts back. He pulls, desperately, finds no give. There isn’t time to think of it. He rips his hand free and screams as flesh rips apart with it. A strangled yell, a startled limp forward and his body shakes as he pulls his hand back. Bone deathly white in the darkness, the steady pitter of blood dripping to the floor. He sobs at ruined pain, struggles to move forward through the haze at it. His hand leads the way, drop, drop, drop. A growl, a groan. A familiar hunger sits in it. A starvation that curls around tendon and muscle. “ _No_.” The anchor blooms in his remaining hand, casts a green glow. Its tendrils once again wrap around his wrist, curl up his arm, reaching for his heart.

He knows this sting. A dying creature lashing out, consuming all others with it. The power swells up in him, wrenching his feet from the floor, pulling him upwards with it. It gives, and then takes. The anchor explodes with raw energy, sending him flying backwards over the banister.

A moment of blessed black.

He gasps as he struggles and fails to pull air into reeling lungs. Rolling over onto his stomach and its only when he takes those first true gulps does he look at his hand. Gone. His arm hangs in tatters. His vision hazes over, threatens to fade. Dorian. The stairs. Dim, stumbling, barely able to get upright let alone stay there. He uses the wall as support but even that isn’t enough. It takes only one slip to send him falling hard, to keep him on the ground. “Dorian.” His head leans against a step. The light from the bedroom is flickering, failing. “ _Dorian_.”

“Nan?” He blinks in suddenly bright sun. Nan finds himself standing on the stairs of their estate, blanketed by the warmth pouring in from clear windows. Dorian stands on the landing, hair mused from sleep. His voice is still hoarse with sleep, freshly woken. “How long have you been awake?”

“I – I don’t think I’ve slept yet,” Nan says, glancing at his hand.


	2. II

“It’s been the same for the past three days,” he says. He turns the cup only slightly, porcelain against porcelain, stuck in that matching saucer. The tea remains untouched, still steaming. He briefly rubs at the corner of his eye. “I’m already halfway to the room when it starts.” His hand moves from his eye to settle on his shoulder, a half hug, as he leans forward, elbow on the table. “The mirror is waiting for me.”

It’s always on its own. Surrounded by sunshine, the glass of the windows cast brilliant vibrations of light across the clean floor, all colliding at the center. He tracks mud inside. His footsteps make no sound, or perhaps they’re simply silenced by it. It hums a song, low and rolling. Gnarled branches make up its frame, with halla carved by his own hand or perhaps a hand he used to have. The windows gently shake with the song. Dust falls from the cracks in the ceiling. It has its back to him. The sun sets and rises in that room a thousand times before he stands before it.

The mirror shows him what he already knows in his heart to be true. It reflects a pattern of infection, just under his skin. Mahanon presses fingers against the scar of his arm, gone from the shoulder, and follows the luminescent green bloom. The mirror reflects his carving of flesh, heaving chunks. Piercing fingertips into bone, pulling at the strings of vein and nerve through weighted muscle. There’s always the need to go further, to seek out the source of the rot. There’s always more fade lurking in his depths. The song hums what he’s told himself a thousand times. It will never be gone.

He tears himself apart, unravels himself to the end. The taint is in the weave. He is left, small and alone, but for his reflection. It regards him kindly, at least. His own mouth opens to speak, but it’s only the song and Mahanon can’t understand the words. They’re from a tongue far older than his own. Something shifts under his own reflection’s skin, as though someone else is wearing him.

“It doesn’t change,” Mahanon tells them, rubbing at the dark circles under his eyes. He turns the cup once again, can’t bring himself to drink just yet. “And I can’t hear the Well anymore.” Dorian and Maevaris exchange a glance. Dorian reaches out, puts his hand over Mahanon’s.

“We’ll figure this out,” he assures Nan gently.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can always find me [@jawsandbones](http://jawsandbones.tumblr.com/post/146678434099)


End file.
